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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25979023">for the hope of it all</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydearestcece/pseuds/mydearestcece'>mydearestcece</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo - Taylor Jenkins Reid</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>1980s, Bittersweet, Canon Compliant, F/F, and also a certain song, based on that one newspaper clipping</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 11:08:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>931</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25979023</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydearestcece/pseuds/mydearestcece</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Celia St. James and Hollywood newcomer Joan Marker have become the talk of the town lately!</p><p>Now This! and Sub Rosa don't see everything, though. Joan knows she's on borrowed time with Celia, but that doesn't stop her from living in hope.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Celia St. James/Joan Marker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>56</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>for the hope of it all</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p></p><div>
  <p>When people look at the pictures, they notice the sky first. A haze of orange and pink, broken by the Californian palm trees. Or they notice our smiles, the laughter. They’d say we were glowing, shining like the trophies we lusted after. To the paparazzi, spotting us together was a bonus. A shot of me would be worth less than one of Celia alone, but a front-page spread of the two of us together was like hitting the jackpot. As far as they were concerned, she was showing me the ropes. It was a very agreeable friendship. They loved our movies, and they loved the way I would smile into their lens from behind Celia, her frame partially blocking me from the shot. She’d give them a good show, but she never looked their way if she could help it. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Are you using me?” I asked her, blotting my lipstick as she drove me home one night. She laughed at this, as she always did when I insinuated such a thing. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“What would I get from being seen with you, Joan?” There was nothing vindictive in her question, and Celia didn’t take her eyes off the road for even a moment. I had the strange urge to pull at her elbow, force her to give me her attention for even a moment. I resisted, of course.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Well, I’m younger than you are. And I’m good for your image, I make you fun and exciting instead of a widow.” Celia was quick to correct me, that she wasn’t a widow. She and John had divorced before he had died. I didn’t see that it mattered much. They’d photographed her mourning, poured their sympathies out to her, in their eyes she was his widow. The tone in her voice told me that she didn’t want to discuss the matter further, so I didn’t point this out. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>I wondered if she had loved him. When I eventually plucked up the courage, or audacity to ask, she told me,</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I loved the life we had,” which seemed like a non-answer. If she hadn’t been tangled in my sheets with a cigarette, I might have pushed. Instead, I enjoyed the view of her red hair fanned out and her mascara smudged. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>I wasn’t so green as to think that Celia loved me. I’d seen too many of her movies for that. On the screen when she was in love, it was plain to see. Even at forty, she could play the love-struck virgin better than anybody I knew. When we were together, there was none of that. Celia exuded confidence, and an interest that teetered between casual and boredom. When I reminisce, I think that I was attracted to that. I liked seeing the <em>real</em> her. When I’m more drawn to melancholy, I know that I secretly hoped I’d reach deeper into her and find the love she gave so freely on-screen. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>A week later, I made the mistake of mentioning John again. It seems a foolish mistake, but those shots of her and John with Evelyn Hugo and Harry Cameron had filled me with such excitement in those early days. If I worked hard enough, perhaps I could be like them one day. I never cared much about finding a husband, but the glamour and camaraderie kept me glued to the front pages along with the rest of America. I told Celia this, hoping that she’d find it endearing. She clearly did not. It seemed obvious to me then that she missed that part of her life very much. We had fun, but it was never where she wanted to be. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Even when Celia was annoyed with me, it didn’t stop her from climbing into bed beside me. She would insist that the lights be off. I wondered who she was thinking of. She would whisper sweet nothings. I would grow tired of the way her hands seemed glued to my breasts. We both knew that it was over long before we needed to discuss what <em>it</em> was.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>The last time that I saw her, we sat in her car for an uncomfortably long time. When I said that I knew it was over, that was true. Her parking outside of my house at the end of the night instead of hers still came as a surprise, since the longer things went on, the safer her place was than mine. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I enjoyed tonight,” She smiled at me sweetly, and I finally saw the Celia St. James that the nation paid to see on screens. Without saying a word, she had told me enough.  </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>‘We should do it again!’ It seemed like the natural follow-up, and I felt that if I stared at her lips a little longer I would <em>will</em> her to say it. Celia turned her head away, hands smoothing down her blue skirt, avoiding an awkward moment. And what was I supposed to respond to that, without the implication that we would be doing the same thing in a week’s time? ‘I had fun’ was cordial, resignation disguised as agreement. Anything more would be pleading. Since we moved in the same circles and would inevitably see each other again, I wouldn’t embarrass myself like that. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>I unfastened my seatbelt and picked up my purse. I opened the door, and she finally looked back at me. It was rude to leave without saying anything, and I almost laughed at the offence I had caused. Any man would have been relieved, but Celia was an Oscar-winning actress. She had been looking forward to the scene. </p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I recently became aware that there were no TSHOEH fics on ao3 so I thought I better remedy that. I have Harry Cameron's whole life mapped out in my head, but I couldn't let the first fic not be f/f so here's a tiny ode to Joan Marker instead.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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